


Just Like Heaven

by FandomTrashbag



Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: 80s rock balads, Coping Mechanisms, music therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:08:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29275971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrashbag/pseuds/FandomTrashbag
Summary: Difficult missions make for difficult lives which make for coping mechanisms among our heroes. James has learned that 80s alt rock means Natasha is dealing with heavy things.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Just Like Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> All I write is slice-of-life fics anymore. Sorry. I don't know how to develop a story because I'm not an actual writer; I think more in moments between characters than anything else.
> 
> Title and song by The Cure
> 
> Nat's playlist prolly includes The Cure, The Smiths, Bowie, and prolly some Brian Eno thrown in. I think you get the idea.
> 
> I used Google Translate for the Russian, so please don't kill me. Translations in the End Note.

**Daylight licked me into shape  
** **I must have been asleep for days  
** **And moving lips to breathe her name  
** **I opened up my eyes  
** **And found myself alone, alone  
** **Alone above a raging sea  
** **That stole the only girl I loved  
** **And drowned her deep inside of me**

* * *

Everyone has their coping mechanisms; it’s not strange. Processing trauma or stress is always easier when there is something familiar. It took some time to be comfortable with the idea that these things were safe habits to form. They look a little different for every person, even those with a  _ shared  _ trauma.

Sam found his solace in therapy and helping others process their experiences. Steve ran. He ran a lot and it helped him clear the brain-fog. Sharon preferred the shooting range on occasion. Wanda loved to cook, specifically meals from her childhood.

Aside from smoking like a chimney, James would sometimes dance. Natasha’s cue was music; what she was listening to could tell a lot about her mood. Coming home after a particularly rough week overseas, James made sure to kill his cigarette before stuffing the unsmoked half back in its pack. Waste not, want not and all that. He looked up the side of the building to the fifth floor where he could see the dim yellow light filtering out of their windows. Being up at 3AM wasn’t the best sign as it was. Maybe she’d fallen asleep reading again.

The hike up the stairs was particularly winding this time and he tried to make a mental note to cut back on the smoking again. He hadn’t had access to comms for most of the mission and no safe way to keep in touch. He was clambering “home” as soon as he could after debriefing just to see her. They had told him she just got back herself but left out any mission details, only mentioned that she'd gone straight out the door and back on her bike. He knew where she’d gone. This wasn’t  _ a  _ home but it served well enough as  _ theirs _ . It was a fifth floor walk-up in an old neighborhood she used for decompressing. If you tried looking for it, this address didn’t even exist. They spent more and more time here together.

As he slid the key through the lock, he turned it and paused, listening carefully. He sighed, hearing the moody crooning of Robert Smith on the other side. Quietly, he stepped in, resetting the locks on the door and draping this thick leather jacket over the back of a barstool on the way to the kitchen. He could hear her humming to the music and dishes knocking together in the sink. She always used crooning, moody music from the 80s when she didn’t feel up to snuff. He suspected it had something to do with spending her teenage years being used as a covert assassin instead of rebelling like a proper kid.

James shuffled up behind her, watching the tension in her shoulders increase until his arms wrapped securely around her waist and he buried his face in the crook of her neck, nuzzling the soft spot with his nose.

She took a deep breath and controlled her exhale, allowing herself to relax a little into him, and closed her eyes. “Privet moy soldat.” 

“Chto bespokoit moyego pauka?” he asked her softly, the Russian never failing to leave him smoothly. 

She shook her head. “A mood. Nothing I can’t handle,” she said, patting his right arm around her fondly. She turned around in his arms, smiling a little sadly in reassurance. “Mne luchshe, teper' ty doma."

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her, knowing she was being evasive, but kissed the tip of her nose. “Ty moy dom,” he said, leaning down to kiss her lips sweetly.

She ran her damp, soapy hands through his greasy hair and some of the sadness left her smile. 

His large hands gripped her hips to wiggle them in time to the music and convince her to relax. “Come on,” he said, tugging her by the drawstring of her sleep pants away from the sink and towards the sofa. “Dishes can wait until after dawn, moy pauk.”  His elbow hit the light switch on the way by. He shimmied them into the living area where he stretched his long body along the overstuffed cushions of the second-hand couch and pulled her down with him.

She let herself fold and fall against him, eliciting a grunt as she landed on his chest followed by a huff of laughter. 

“Are you going to tell me about it?” he asked as she snuggled against him, wrapping her arms around his middle. His left arm cradled around her back, the cool metal warming with her body heat. His right hand reached up to tuck her bright hair back away from the face buried against his clavicle.

“Not particularly,” she mumbled.

She drew her knees up a little and his legs moved to wrap around her lower body as they settled in for the deep snuggle. It took hours for the tension to leave her body, and he could tell she didn’t fall asleep for a while. Every now and then, he’d run his hand along her back and side, kneading the muscles there into relaxation. He was tired, let his breathing even out under her head, but didn’t sleep. It wasn’t until the dull orange of the sunrise tried to leak through the closed shades that he finally felt her body relax and become a dead weight against him. Eventually, he reached over to turn the music off and settled down more firmly into the cushions. His grip around her tightened as he drifted off.

Today was going to be for nothing. Today would be for sleeping and holding and leaving behind whatever albatross they had come home with.

**Author's Note:**

> I toyed with the idea of her finding solace in classical music and Russian composers, but I've always leaned toward that stuff being more triggering for her, considering all that fancy brainwashing. It might be cliche of me, but it makes sense so *shrug*
> 
> Translations (in order):  
> \- hello my soldier  
> \- what bothers my spider  
> \- i’m better off now you’re home  
> \- you are my home  
> \- my spider


End file.
